Page 5 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

I pull in a breath and count to five, exhaling with seven counts, letting go of the stress that wants to linger in my shoulders and neck. I peek out the peephole on my apartment door, giving myself all the information I can before opening it up.

I am staring at a broad chest with shoulders that could be boulders. My eyes drag up to a clean-shaven jaw and deliciously thick eyebrows. Mr. Christmas-Came-Early’sdark hair swoops to the side, and he runs one hand through it while he waits for me to open the door.

I do. Because why would I leave my early Christmas gift waiting on the doorstep? That’s rude. That, and there is a very good possibility he is a figment of my imagination. I haven’t had a man knock on this door in quite some time. My anxious ways and attachment to my pup seems to run them off. Still, I open up, and Mr. Dreamy doesn’t disappear. Nope, instead, the bluest eyes I’ve ever beheld take hold of me.

Whew. Somebody turn on the air conditioning. It may be December, but it’s getting warm in here.

“Miss Miller?”

My brows cinch. Why wouldn’t my Christmas gift just refer to me as Bonnie? I’m pretty sure we should be on a first-name basis.

I swallow and remind myself to smile. “Yes. That’s me.”

He holds out a stern hand. It’s not a sweet gesture. That hand does not sayMerry Christmas, Bonnie, you’ll never be alone. Not if I can help it.

And then he opens his mouth. “E.J. Eaton.”

FOUR

elliot

The pretty smilein front of me changes into a scowl. “A4,” she mumbles.

Okay, Q wasn’t wrong. Had I passed this girl on the street, I’d be doing a double take. But I’m not here to make a new friend. I’m here for business, for Gran.

“Can I come in?”

She sets one hand on her curved hip and tilts her head, her long, strawberry-blonde hair falling to the side like a waterfall. She studies me like I might be a scientific project she’s trying to figure out. “Are you sane? In what universe would I letyouinto my home?” Bonnie Miller’s arms cross over her red wool sweater.

My eyes narrow. “Because you have a dog in there? Or?—”

“Because you are the lunatic stalking me and trying to get me kicked out of my apartment!”

“I just want to have a conversation.” I hold up my hands. If I had a white flag, I’d wave it. Not to give in, but to getinside her place. I know what I know. She won’t take advantage of my gran any longer.

“Right. My mother taught me better than that. You stay on your side of that threshold, bud.” Her eyes drop to the imaginary line separating the hallway and her apartment. “I’ll stay on my side, and then I won’t need to use my pepper spray.”

Pepper spray? Okay, this girl is growing less beautiful by the minute. She may have soft blue eyes and ridiculously long lashes, but one minute in the same space as her and all of that disappears. She’s just a lying dog hoarder with pepper spray up her sleeve.

Beautiful faces are deceiving. Like a siren’s song.

Jess had a beautiful face too.

That was a lesson I learned the hard way. I won’t make the same mistake with Miss Miller.

“Fine,” I say, giving my tone that nonchalance tenor I use whenever my sisters accuse me of being Gran’s favorite. “Dig your own grave.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re proving me right. You don’t want me inside because there’s a dog in there.” I shrug as if this is all the proof I need to take further action.

“I’m proving you’re a stalker and all women should be warned of your existence.” Her jaw tightens. “What do you have against dogs anyway?”

I set my hand on the door jamb and lean a little closer. It’s the wrong thing to do. Bonnie Miller is not only beautiful, but she smells like raspberry jam—my favorite. I blink and breathe and ignore the way sweetness wafts off of her—clearly, it’s lying to me too. “I don’t have anything againstdogs. I had one growing up. But this building doesn’t allow dogs. And I don’t think it’s right of you to ignore that.”

“If I did have a dog or a cat or, heck, even an elephant in here, how would you know my situation? Maybe Mrs. Elliot and I have worked out some kind of an arrangement.” She lifts one brow as if she’s got me.

While I’m not about to mention that Mrs. Elliot is my gran—my namesake—I’m also not going to sit here and pretend Bonnie Miller is telling me the truth. “Ha! You admit you have a dog in there?—”

---